


haven't got any hands

by hellodeer



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: College, Future Fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 08:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11077464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellodeer/pseuds/hellodeer
Summary: Oikawa goes home to his four-tatami apartment. He eats convenience store bento for the third time this week, and it’s only Tuesday. He finally lets his muscles relax under the hot spray of the rattly old shower, closes his eyes and just breathes, when suddenly the water turns cold and he yelps.After he’s dressed, he sits on the floor and bangs his head against his tiny table a couple of times. He calls Iwaizumi.





	haven't got any hands

The Small Giant looks a lot like his brother. Or rather, being younger, Tobio-chan looks a lot like the Small Giant. The point is, they both have big, round blue eyes and small noses, the same pitch black hair.

But while Tobio rarely smiles, his brother laughs loudly, the sound filling the entire gym. Where Tobio stutters, the Small Giant speaks clearly. Oikawa sends him a toss, and Tobio would say it was perfect and bow his head in thanks, but the Small Giant turns to Oikawa and sneers, “You’re shit at this.”

“Ah, sorry, Kageyama-senpai,” Oikawa smiles, lips stretching over his teeth like plastic. “I’ll send it a bit lower next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” the Small Giant says. “I wanna practice with Satoru now.”

They have been practicing for all of ten minutes, Oikawa sending him toss after toss and getting back _higher_ s and _lower_ s and _are you a fucking moron, how hard can this be?_. Oikawa smiles, nods, turns his back on the Small Giant after being dismissed with a wave of hand.

Satoru-san pats his shoulder when he walks by, and Oikawa hears him say “Stop being a dick, Taichi.” The Small Giant just laughs.

Oikawa sits on the bench. He takes a drink from the bottle the manager hands him, fills his mouth with water and moves the liquid from cheek to cheek, resisting the urge to march up to the Small Giant and spit it in his face.

“He’s difficult,” Ushiwaka says. He’s leaning against the wall next to the bench, not taking the hint Oikawa had thought to be obvious, _leave me the fuck alone_. “But he’s a great player.”

Oikawa swallows, since that’s better than spitting water on Ushiwaka instead.

“No shit,” he says. Then he gets up and goes back to practice.

*

Oikawa goes home to his four-tatami apartment. He eats convenience store bento for the third time this week, and it’s only Tuesday. He finally lets his muscles relax under the hot spray of the rattly old shower, closes his eyes and just breathes, when suddenly the water turns cold and he yelps.

After he’s dressed, he sits on the floor and bangs his head against his tiny table a couple of times. He calls Iwaizumi.

“Yo,” Iwaizumi says, like he’s smiling, and at the sound of his voice Oikawa tears up.

“Iwa-chan,” he whines.

“Are you crying?” Iwaizumi asks.

“I’m not,” Oikawa says, wiping his eyes with one hand.

“Do you miss me that much?” Iwaizumi asks, voice dancing with jest, but:

“Yes,” Oikawa answers, firm and honest. “This team sucks. Let me transfer to your school.”

Iwaizumi laughs.

“Kuroo and Bokuto are already a handful, I don’t want _you_ teaming up with them,” he says. “And I thought you chose Chuo University because it’s the best team in Japan.”

“I did,” Oikawa sighs. “But Tobio-chan’s brother sucks.”

Tobio-chan used to ask Oikawa to teach him to serve a lot in middle school. Oikawa would always refuse, leering and sticking his tongue out at him.

“Go ask your brother,” he had snapped once, and, noticing the way it made the corners of Tobio-chan’s mouth pull down in a frown, continued to repeat it day after day, until the boy eventually stopped asking.

“Now I know what Tobio-chan’s damage is,” Oikawa hisses. “His brother is a fucking asshole.”

“Well,” Iwaizumi says. “You knew he was on the team before you signed up.”

“I didn’t know he would be so bad! And Ushiwaka is here too. This is the worst team ever,” and, when Iwaizumi laughs again: “Stop laughing at my pain, Iwa-chan.”

They say their goodbyes shortly after that, after Iwaizumi is done telling Oikawa what a pain in the ass Kuroo and Bokuto are, his voice light and fond, and about Sawamura from Karasuno being actually a cool guy, and how some of the senpai dragged them to karaoke last night.

So Oikawa lies on the futon. He closes his eyes and sees the Small Giant smirking at him, sees Ushiwaka narrowing his eyes, and decides, out of sheer spite, that he’s gonna be the best goddamn setter they have ever seen.

He dreams of volleyballs raining from the sky and hitting his enemies in the head.

*

The next day finds Oikawa on time for his 8AM class, after another cold shower and a breakfast of soggy rice. There are thirty names in the roll call, but only four other students are present in the classroom, most of them dozing off at the back. 

Oikawa sits next to the only person who is awake, a girl with thick glasses and a mass of black hair that hides her face. She’s called Naka; he knows this because he knows all of his classmate’s names. He doesn’t talk to her, focusing instead on the professor, who goes on and on about verbs and conjugations.

By the time class is finished, Oikawa has filled six pages of his notebook and is starting to develop a headache. He gets up and stretches. Naka drops her pencil case. Oikawa picks it up for her, and she bows before running from the room.

He has lunch at the cafeteria with a group of people that share his afternoon class. They’re loud and nosy and mean, but Oikawa smiles with them, laughs with them, jokes with them. He can barely pay attention to class later, the pressure behind his eyes building and building, his head pounding.

When class lets out, he goes to the gym. It’s still two hours before practice starts, good enough time for him to warm up alone and be ready to go when the senpais arrive.

He’s not alone. Ushiwaka is there. He spikes a ball, and it hits hard on the court floor and bounces. Oikawa catches it before it hits him in the face.

“Hello,” Ushiwaka says. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t you have class?” Oikawa asks, taking off his shoes with one hand, the other still holding the ball.

“Until three,” Ushiwaka nods. He makes a motion for Oikawa to return the ball, but Oikawa doesn’t.

He walks to the locker room. He changes. He goes back to the gym, and Ushiwaka is still there, sending ball after ball in the air and hitting them, powerful and graceful. Oikawa turns his back to him, stretches.

Then he positions himself on the side of the court opposite Ushiwaka. He breathes deep. He jumps, and he serves, and the ball hits the floor then makes a line straight for Ushiwaka’s face. Ushiwaka catches it effortlessly.

“Tsk,” Oikawa goes, as Ushiwaka nods at him.

They practice, unspeaking and on opposite sides of the net, not that different from high school competitions. By the time the senpais arrive, Oikawa is sweaty and thirsty and his knee hurts.

The Small Giant’s got a smile that’s all teeth, sharp and feral, ready to bite. He directs it to Oikawa, right after he slaps Ushiwaka on the back and says “you’ll amount to something, Wakatoshi, unlike some people here.”

On the way home, Oikawa stops by the drugstore to buy aspirins.

*

So he uses the extra two hours every day, and Ushiwaka is always there, and they practice in silence, their communication limited to _give me the ball_ and _sorry about that_ , this one always from Ushiwaka.

Oikawa stays late, after the team has gone home and the coach has sighed and shook his head at him. He only leaves when the manager shouts at him, saying she has to lock up and she wants to _go home, it’s 9PM already, you volleyball-monkey_. 

He makes sure he always bows to her, says “Thank you, Yoshikawa-san.”

On Wednesday, one week after he’s started the extra practices, Ushiwaka stops in front of him while Oikawa is stretching.

“You should toss to me,” he says, his head so big it blocks the lights, casting Oikawa in the shadows.

Oikawa finishes stretching, then he slowly rises from the floor to his full height, looking Ushiwaka in the eyes.

“And why,” Oikawa sneers, crosses his arms. “Would I do that?”

“We’re on the same team now,” Ushiwaka answers, unaffected by Oikawa’s scorn. “We’re gonna play together in matches, we should be prepared.”

 _With your skills, you’ll never even be a benchwarmer_ , the Small Giant had said two days ago, after Oikawa had delivered a perfect jump serve during practice.

 _Don’t discourage the kouhai, Taichi_ , Satoru-san had said.

“I’ll rephrase,” Ushiwaka says now. “Will you toss to me?”

It’s not much better, still arrogant and conceited, but Ushiwaka is the best wing spiker among the freshmen, someone whose name made people go ‘oooh’ and ‘aaah’ when he introduced himself. He’s gonna be the ace in a couple of years. The Small Giant likes him, and so does the coach, and that’s helpful, that’s something Oikawa can use.

(Oikawa’s name had made no one go ‘oooh’ and ‘aaah’; all he got were polite nods and a few smiles)

“Alright,” he says, finally, uncrossing his arms. “I’ll let you spike for me.”

Ushiwaka nods like he had never for a second doubted this would be Oikawa’s response. Oikawa wants to punch him in his smug face, but he doesn’t. Instead he tosses to Ushiwaka, who is _perfect_ , reasonable and polite in his criticism. 

Oikawa is disgusted.

He tosses to Ushiwaka the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Yoshikawa kicks them out early on Saturday, forcefully taking the balls from their hands and locking them in the equipment room.

“Oikawa,” Ushiwaka says, when they’re gathering their things in the locker room. “Come have dinner at my place.”

“Ha!” Oikawa says, and three days ago he would have turned around and walked away, but he’s been living off convenience store bento and cafeteria food for five days straights, all of it flavorless and cold and wrong. So he says, “I’ll go, but only because you begged.”

Ushiwaka tilts his head to the side. He opens his mouth like he’s gonna talk back, say he has never begged for anything in his life. Oikawa holds his head high and looks him in the eye, and in the end Ushiwaka just says “Sure.”

Ushiwaka lives a 10-minute walk from campus, which they make in silence. His building is not new, but it’s well maintained and clean, and his apartment has actual _rooms_. 

“Fucking rich boy,” Oikawa mutters under his breath. He bets Ushiwaka’s shower gives him hot water for move than five minutes a day.

“Make yourself at home,” Ushiwaka says, taking off his shoes and placing his schoolbag on a hanger, all proper. “I’ll be right back,” then he disappears inside the apartment.

Oikawa drops his bags on the couch, taking as much space as he can without his mother’s voice ringing in his ear, _Someone invited you over to their house, Tooru. You should not be rude_.

Ushiwaka’s living room is tidy, the walls painted a clear, soft green. He’s got a brown couch and a low table and a TV and a shelf full of books, with titles in both Japanese and English, and—

“Is that French,” Oikawa says to himself, taking _Le Petit Prince_ from where it’s nestled between _Thousand Cranes_ and _The Old Man and the Sea_. “Ugh,” he goes, putting the book back.

There are books on the table too, and a single one on top of the television. There are four books in a pile on the windowsill, next to a beautiful potted plant. Oikawa sniffs the flowers. They smell amazing.

“I hate this place,” he tells the room at large, and it’s then that Ushiwaka comes back with a tray of green tea and sweets.

“Is udon okay?” Ushiwaka asks, setting the tray down on the table.

Being offered free food, Oikawa would say anything is okay, but he absolutely loves udon. He sneers instead, says “You sure you can make that?”

“Sure,” Ushiwaka nods. “I like to cook.”

“What _ever_ ,” Oikawa says. Ushiwaka shrugs and goes back to the kitchen.

Once he’s out of view, Oikawa sits cross-legged on the floor and eats all the sweets on the tray. It’s higashi of various shapes and colors, and they’re delicious, and so is the tea.

He rests his back against the couch and plays around on his phone a little, texts Iwaizumi _guess where I am_ , takes a selfie in the living room for when he gets a reply. He says a few things on his classmates’ LINE group chat and nothing on the team’s. He tries to check Twitter, but his internet is shitty at best. He finds Ushiwaka’s WiFi, named _Wakatoshi_ , but it’s password-protected, and he’s not about to ask.

After twenty minutes, Oikawa is bored out of his mind, and decides that what’s the point in being in Ushiwaka’s apartment if he can’t annoy the hell out of him. So he goes to the kitchen, which is at the end of the only hallway in the place. There are two doors on the left and a few move shelves with books on the right.

The kitchen is small, with space only for the sink, an oven, a fridge, a cupboard and Ushiwaka, who’s still wearing soft, old clothes and socks. Oikawa crosses his arms and cocks his hips against the doorway.

“Taking your time, uh?” Oikawa says. Ushiwaka doesn’t jump, caught by surprise; he merely turns around and looks at Oikawa, still stirring noodles, which pisses Oikawa off.

“Yes, the noodles can’t be undercooked,” he turns back to the pot.

Oikawa scoffs. Then he goes on a long rant about the most boring thing he can think of: English grammar in 18th century Wales.

“That’s really interesting,” Ushiwaka nods, then presents Oikawa with two bowls of the most beautiful udon he’s ever seen. “It’s done.”

“Ugh,” Oikawa goes. He helps Ushiwaka take the food and hashi to the living room, where they sit seiza in front of the table and eat.

It’s delicious. Oikawa would genuinely cry, if this wasn’t Ushiwaka.

“Good?” Ushiwaka asks.

“It’s alright,” he says.

They eat in silence, until Ushiwaka begins to talk about the team. He likes the Small Giant, he says. He likes the middle blockers. He likes the wing spikers. He likes Satoru-san, too, he’s a great setter.

“Whatever,” Oikawa says. “I’ll be better.”  
Ushiwaka smiles, the corners of his mouth turning up the tiniest bit, barely there; Oikawa still sees it. “You still have that pride of yours,” he says, voice not mean, not unkind.

Clearly he doesn’t anymore, if he’s eating udon at Ushiwaka’s place. But, “Yes,” he says, his chin up.

Ushiwaka nods, says “Alright.”

Oikawa finishes his udon and goes home.

*

On Sunday he can’t use the school gym, so he goes to the municipal sports center instead. There are people using the gymnasium to play volleyball, a team of grandmothers who seem to be having a lot of fun. Oikawa finds a corner for himself and goes through his routine of stretches, then tosses, then serves, then spikes. His knee hurts, but he doesn’t stop. 

He takes a quick lunch break, stomach rumbling as he remembers Ushiwaka’s delicious udon. He considers the restaurant next to the gym, considers wasting money he doesn’t have. He goes to the convenience store in the end.

The next day, his body achey and stiff, Naka-san corners him after class.

“Oikawa-kun,” she says, head down and shoulders raised to her ears. “Would you be interested in giving lessons to kids? One kid, actually.”

“What,” Oikawa blurts out.

“I mean,” Naka-san continues, voice coming out in rushed, broken whispers. “I tutor a few kids who need help with English, and there’s another one, a little boy, his mother wants me to teach him but I can’t, I have too many kids already but I told her I would find someone to help her son, so. Would you? I mean, I understand if you can’t or—”

“Naka-san,” Oikawa says, interrupting her babbler. “Why me?”

“Oh,” she goes, and actually lifts her head to look at him. She’s got dark, deep brown eyes behind her thick glasses. “You’re the only one who comes to class regularly and stays awake through it,” she pauses, then: “Besides me.”

Oikawa smiles. He has no idea how he will manage tutoring a kid, when he’ll have time between volleyball and classes, but:

“I’ll do it,” he says, and bows. “Thank you, Naka-san.”

“Oh,” she says, bowing too. “No, no, thank you, Oikawa-kun.”

So he offers to buy her lunch, even if all he can afford is cheap cafeteria food, and she goes all pink and nervous.

At the cafeteria, from the table full of their classmates, someone says, “Hey, Oikawa, come sit down!”

He smiles brightly at them, fighting the desire to stick his tongue out. 

“Can’t, I’m having lunch with a friend today,” he says, waves goodbye and finds a table as far from these people as possible.

Naka-san turns out to be very sharp and funny, and Oikawa laughs himself silly when she makes a rude comment about the one professor who wears a wig.

“Sorry,” she says, her face flushed. “I don’t think before I speak.”

“That’s alright,” he smiles at her. “It’s no good to think too much.”

He’s in such a good mood when he gets to the gym that he even says hello to Ushiwaka.

“Hello,” Ushiwaka replies, one eyebrow raised, an amused tilt to the corner of his mouth.

Oikawa makes a face at him. 

During practice, the Small Giant seems to detect Oikawa’s happiness and goes out of his way to be an asshole. He calls Oikawa names, complains about his tosses over and over, scoffs at his serves and even bumps into Oikawa once, sending him to the ground.

“Oops,” the Small Giant says, laughing. “My bad.”

Oikawa feels his body warm with rage, but he smiles, picks himself off the floor.

“No problem, Kageyama-senpai.”

“Why are you such a dick, Taichi,” is all Satoru-san says, and the Small Giant shrugs and waves his hands.

Coach announces that practice is over. Ushiwaka does not move towards the locker room.

“I’ll stay, too,” he says.

So Oikawa puts up with him for another hour, until it’s eight o’clock and he can feel Yoshikawa-san’s stares burning holes through his body.

“We should probably go,” Oikawa says, and Ushiwaka nods.

“Oikawa,” Ushiwaka says, after, both of them outside the gym in the cool May night. “Is gyudon okay for dinner tonight?”

Oikawa stares at him, perplexed, but Ushiwaka doesn’t seem to be kidding. Still, “Are you offering me free food?” Oikawa asks. “Again?”

“Yes,” Ushiwaka answers, firm and honest.

“What do you get out of it?” Oikawa insists, deeply suspicious.

“Your lovely company,” Ushiwaka says, but it’s dry this time, a little bit mean.

Oikawa is so surprised he has no time to hide his smile.

“I thought you didn’t know what sarcasm was,” he says.

“I’m familiar,” Ushiwaka replies.

Oikawa hums, the sound of it vibrating from the back of his throat. He puts his hands in his pockets.

“Gyudon is alright,” he says.

He swears he sees Ushiwaka smile.

*

His parents call every other night, mostly to ask about practice, if he’s on the starting line-up yet, how’s his knee. His mother speaks coldly, and his dad always sounds distant, like he’s too wrapped up in his own sadness to give his son much attention.

His favorite to talk to is his sister.

“How are you?” she asks, voice muffled and quiet. It’s late, almost midnight, his sister secluded in the kitchen so she doesn’t disturb their parents or Takeru.

“I told you already,” Oikawa frowns. He has just spent half an hour telling her about the team, and how annoying the Small Giant is, and about all his extra practices and how it’s still not enough.

“You told me about volleyball. I asked how are you.”

He pauses. Blinks. Then he flops onto his tiny futon, whole body sagging with a great sigh.

“Very tired,” he says. “Stressed. Hungry. And I miss you and Takeru.”

“We miss you, too,” she says. There’s a smile on her voice that soon fades. “Seems to me like you only tell me negative things. Nothing good going on?”

“Hmmm,” Oikawa thinks back to Ushiwaka’s place, where they ate hamburgers and drank green tea tonight. Ushiwaka’s couch was soft, and the music he played from his phone so calm and slow that Oikawa drifted off into sleep without meaning to. “Not really, no.”

*

He gives his first lesson on the first Saturday of May, to a cheeky boy called Chika.

“This is so boring,” he says, hand resting on his hand. They’re sitting in the boy’s bedroom, English books open on the low table, but Chika looks longingly out the window. “I want to see the cherry blossoms.”

“Did you know, Chika-kun,” Oikawa adjusts his glasses. “they also have cherry trees in America?”

“Stop lying,” Chika scoffs. “They only exist in Japan.”

“Let me show you something.”

Oikawa takes his laptop out of his backpack, goes on YouTube, types ‘cherry trees in dc’ and quickly searches for a decent-looking [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJ2SD47278s).

Chika watches with his mouth hanging open in fascination.

“But!” he says when the video is over. “Cherry trees are Japanese!”

“Yes,” Oikawa tells him, patiently. “A couple of people in the video point it out. Did you catch that?”

Chika frowns.

“No.”

“Let’s watch it again, then.”

Oikawa smiles at him. Chika keeps frowning, but turns towards the laptop screen and presses play.

*

Naka-san wanted to be a ballerina when she was little.

She tells him this over the tasteless cafeteria rice, her voice no longer the whisper of when they first met. She worked hard until she was ten, she says, too hard, and torn some ligaments on her left foot. Oikawa winces in sympathy, touches his knee under the table.

It’s then that Ushiwaka appears, carrying a tray and hovering awkwardly behind Naka-san.

“Hello,” he says. Naka-san jumps.

“Hello?” she asks, reluctantly turning around to see Ushiwaka towering over her.

“What?” Oikawa asks.

“Is he a friend of yours, Oikawa-kun?” Naka-san asks.

“No,” Oikawa says, at the same time as Ushiwaka says “yes.”

“We’re teammates,” Ushiwaka amends. 

“Oh,” Naka-san says. “Sit down, then.”

Oikawa groans.

“Naka-san, you’re too kind,” he says.

When Ushiwaka sits down next to her, he flashes Oikawa a rare, smug grin, and Oikawa goes hot with the realization that Ushiwaka used Naka-san’s kindness on purpose.

“I’m Ushijima Wakatoshi,” he says, inclining his head to Naka-san. “Nice to meet you.”

“Naka Makoto,” she says. “Likewise.”

Naka-san begins to make desperate small talk, to which Ushiwaka answers with polite nods and short sentences. Oikawa mostly tunes them out until he finishes his lunch.

“Well,” Ushiwaka is saying. “I’m a Literature student, so I understand.”

“You’re a what?” Oikawa says, stunned with surprise.

“You didn’t know, Oikawa-kun?” Naka-san frowns.

Oikawa shakes his head.

“I thought you were an engineering student or something,” he says.

Ushiwaka shrugs.

“I like to read,” is all he says.

“Me too!” Naka-san exclaims brightly.

Ushiwaka smiles at her and asks about her favorite book.

“Nerd,” Oikawa says under his breath, with a pointed look at Ushiwaka. He eats his dessert while pretending he’s not paying attention.

 

*

The middle of next week he gets invited to a goukon by a classmate. His first instinct is to say no, to refuse to pay for food and drinks when he’s been getting them for free every night at Ushiwaka’s. It’s that thought that makes him stop, horrified and disgusted with himself.

“Yes,” he says eagerly instead. “I’ll go to the goukon.”

At the bar, he buys himself one beer, all he can afford, and charms the girls into buying him dinner and sake. They’re very pretty, all four of them, friends of friends who go to another university nearby. The guys are pretty too.

Close to eleven he’s feeling comfortably tipsy and giddy, telling them stories of his greatness as a high school athlete. His phone buzzes.

An unknown number is trying to text him on LINE. He frowns, means to click DELETE, but his thumb slides over ACCEPT instead.

“Stupid smartphone,” he mutters to himself. Someone laughs very loudly next to him.

 _Hello_ , the message says. _This is Ushijima._

Oikawa scowls.

 _since when do you have my number_ , he sends back, very proud of not misspelling a word. He even uses kanji.

 _Yoshikawa-san gave it to me_ , is the answer.

Oikawa rolls his eyes. _what do you want5_

_You missed tempura tonight, but I can save you some._

_ha! are you gonna mak e me a bento// are you a wife???_

_Of course I’m not a wife,_ he sends, and then: _I’m a volleyball player._

“Aw, Oiwaka-kun, you didn’t tell us you had a girlfriend,” someone says. Oikawa blinks at his phone screen, then at the room in large.

“What,” he asks.

“You’re texting your girlfriend, right?” says one of the girls, the one who’s across from him on the table.

__Oikawa frowns deeply._ _

__“I don’t have a girlfriend.”_ _

__“Oh,” she says, a smile dancing on her lips. “You were smiling at your phone, though.”_ _

__“Clearly I was not,” Oikawa shakes his head._ _

__The girl reaches out a hand to pat his arm._ _

__“Clearly,” she says._ _

__*_ _

__The tutoring thing turns out not to be a disaster, and after one month Chika proudly shows him a pop quiz with all but one question marked right. Chika’s mom recommends him to her friends, she says, and soon he’s getting calls from worried mothers and a dad. So he gets three more students, two boys and a girl, which is great for his pocket, but it also means he needs to cut his Saturday practices short, rushing out after lunch to go from house to house._ _

__“Slacking off, are you?” the Small Giant says, after Oikawa misses one serve out of five._ _

_Shut the fuck up, senpai_ , Oikawa doesn’t say.

**Author's Note:**

> title from [here](http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php?id=25)


End file.
